Not for Sale

by Eden Rayna

  “Why don’t you want Owen here? I thought you two were besties now. Long walks at midnight followed by sleepovers.”

  He’s baiting me by bringing emotions into a business decision. Impressively, I ignore it without comment. He flips through the document, scanning quickly.

  “Looks fine to me, although I don’t know that he’ll go for your sale price. He’ll never make a profit that way.”

  I reach into my briefcase and pull out the offer to purchase he sent Gran. “It’s his number. Take it or leave it. I’m happy to sell to someone else if he’s no longer interested.”

  Brett throws his hand skyward in a stopping motion. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Isabella.” I’m surprised when he doesn’t call me Princess. “Let me call him. Hang tight.” He reaches into his breast pocket for his cell phone.

  “You can call me with his answer.” I stand and he rises to match my height. I extend my hand, and there’s a moment of hesitation before he matches my gesture. Holding my fingers, Brett looks into my eyes, searching for a sign that this is a prank. He finds nothing dubious because there is nothing. This is business.

  As I leave his office, I apologise to the receptionist and give her some friendly advice that she should look Elle up; knowing her is a necessity in this industry.

  Those words use the last bit of resolve I have. I wait by the elevator, gripping my briefcase in both hands, channelling energy out through my fingers so it won’t pour from my eyes. An eternity later, the chime rings and the doors slide open. I step inside the glass elevator and watch Brett with his phone to his ear.

  It’s done.

  Chapter 26

  Owen

  “Izzy?” I let myself into her house. My house? “Izzy, are you here?” There’s no answer but her car is parked outside and the door is unlocked, so she’s in here somewhere. I wander through the empty space, marvelling at how different it looks with no walls from the day I helped move her grandmother’s boxes out. That feels like a lifetime ago, although it’s only been six months.

  Halting steps pull me deeper inside. I’ve seen dozens of empty shells, but none of them have felt as barren and lifeless as this one. The base of my skull tingles and a chill creeps along my spine. I feel like an intruder on sacred ground. I expect that at any moment, laughing and running spectres of Izzy and Kelsey as children will dart out from between the studs to dance around me.

  “Izzy?” I call out again and am met with renewed silence as my footsteps stall to listen for her response. “Princess?” There’s an acrimonious exhale from upstairs and I smile to myself.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, noticing the squeak from the fourth riser, I reach the landing in a few strides. There she is, standing in her grandmother’s room, looking out the window. It’s the same window I saw her in the afternoon I got the call from the nursing home telling me Pops was trying to leave the secured building to “go home,” and if they weren’t able to calm him soon, they were going to restrain and sedate him. That was the worst day of my adult life.

  Izzy had pressed her palm to the glass like she was reaching out to me. Like she was telling me I wasn’t alone. I should have given her a sign that I saw it. That I saw her and the pain she was feeling about her grandmother’s home. That I understood a little about her sense of loss and the need to hold on. I think my failure to react then was part of her reason for leaving my house after our night of confessions, with no acknowledgement of what we had done.

  I didn’t seize the opportunity. I couldn’t see past my ego, and she couldn’t see past my fear.

  “Izzy?” I say softly from the door, calling her by name for the first time to her face.

  “Did you sign?”

  Cautious movements bring me into the room. She doesn’t turn from the window to face me, but I witness her reflection clearly. Her vision searches the horizon, ignoring her backyard and my place as she looks far off. Already setting her sights on something else.

  “Can we talk about it?”

  Of course, I’m going to sign, but I need to understand why. How come, after all the animosity and grandstanding, is she giving in? I need to know that it’s not out of pity because she knows my history.

  She shakes her head and presses her fingers to her lips. After a painful swallow, she asks again, “Did you sign?” Her voice is sharper, growing upset that I won’t answer her outright.

  The confidence Brett told me she wore has evaporated and has left a shrunken version of the feisty next-door neighbour I have come to comprehend. And more. A person who I have come to like.

  I can’t sign the deal if she won’t look me in the eye and tell me this is what she really wants.

  A month ago, I would have had the papers signed and a lockbox on the door already. Today, I want to give her as much time as she needs. I want her to camp in the backyard again. I want her to jump in the leaves next fall.

  I didn’t think it was possible, that I was capable of feeling compassion, of seeing things from another’s perspective in a business deal. Somehow, she has shown me I can. With that one hug, she lifted the suffocating chains I had wrapped around my neck. I’ve been able to breathe and focus like never before but, at the same time, an additional burden has been thrust upon me. One where I care what she thinks of me and how my actions affect her.

  Before Izzy, a house was a house. An acquisition. A piece of land. Now it’s a home. It’s recollections. It’s someone’s history and legacy.

  “Not yet, but—”

  “Sign the papers and let’s be done with this. Congratulations. You met your goal. Or you achieved your dream. Or whatever you prefer to call it.”

  Her words hit like a nail gun through my hand. Each mechanical statement is punctuated by a jolt and a hard stop. Saying it like that squashes the accomplishment.

  I take two steps closer, pulled in by a need to hold and comfort her. She twists away, trying to stay hidden. The droop to her lips and the sag in her eyes belie the harsh tone of voice.

  “Why now?” I ask.

  She shrugs as though she didn’t agonise over the thought of selling, especially to me. Her shoulders slump with resignation. She’s given up.

  It’s not a win when the other team quits.

  Silence hangs for so long that I expect I’ll have to draw my own conclusions on the matter.

  “I couldn’t make it happen.” She swipes a tear off her cheek. “I failed.” Her confession is a surprise.

  I come one step closer, waiting for her to tell me that’s close enough. She surprises me there, too, and lets me hover inches away from her. Cold coming through the inefficient windows cools the heat from her body. The smell of old wood and dust diminishes the scent of her perfume. My physical proximity battles with the emotional distance she tries to put between us.

  “You didn’t fail. It was an impossible task.”

  “Yeah.” She spins to face me. Her eyes are puffy and her nose is red. The sleeve of her shirt pulled over her fist is soaking wet from mopping her tears. “I should have known better.”

  “There was no way to know from the surface.” No possibility for her to notice when she couldn’t scrutinise the structure through the memories.

  I know because I’ve worked on dozens of houses like this exact one. Because I’m detached. Because I have no memories.

  “You knew.” She reads my mind. “You told me I was doomed to fail. I guess I’m as stubborn as Gran in the end, hey?” She huffs a sarcastic laugh.

  Izzy reaches into her pocket and fishes out a set of keys on a simple metal key ring. She tosses them at me and I snag them in the palm of my hand.

  “Tell Tommy he can have his launch pad.”

  “Tell him yourself. He’ll still want to see you.”

  It took him months to relax around me and longer to smile at the other guys in the group. With Izzy, the connection was instantaneous. He came home from his ice cream run talking about colour schemes and design like he somehow got himself a college diploma in th
e hour he was gone.

  “Besides, the house isn’t mine yet.”

  I don’t say it to give her hope; she knows I’ll sign and it’s a fait accompli. I say it because I’m not evicting her. If she wants to come and stand at this window day after day, she’s welcome to it. It gives me a strange comfort to know that she’ll be staring into my yard and maybe I’ll be able to catch a glimpse of her now and again.

  “I can’t keep saying goodbye.”

  I understand the feeling. Every time Pops has a good day, I worry it will be the last moment he’ll recognise me as his son. When I leave his room, I say a silent goodbye to him—to my childhood, to my mentor, to my family—because I never know if I’ll get to see him that way again.

  Izzy tries to move past me to leave, but I can’t let her go like this. I catch her arm as she tries to slide by, then I take her hand in mine and place the keys in her trembling fingers, closing her fist around the jagged metal. She might regret the rash decision. Like this, she at least has the option of coming back if she wants. As rough as it is to say goodbye each time, I don’t pass on a single opportunity to be with Pops.

  Fresh tears pool in her eyes. Normally blazing blue, they’re dull with anguish.

  “Why waste any more time? There’s nothing left here for me. The walls have been torn down, the floors removed. Gran’s junk and keepsakes are gone. My mom is no longer here.” Her breath hitches as she tries to maintain what little composure she has left.

  She pulls another step away and I tighten my grip on her arm and pull her to me. Her feeble protest is ignored, and I encircle her in my embrace like she taught me to do when I was hurting. She buries her head against my pec in the same place it always lands when we get this close. Her body shakes as she sobs her tears into my t-shirt. I absorb it all. I muffle her cries and I sop up her salty emotion. I’m glad she doesn’t need words of comfort because I’ve never been good with them. But this, holding her until she lets it all go, I can do.

  As the minutes pass and my body warms where she leans against me, I wonder if I’m the one who’s not ready to let it all go. I need to keep her anchored against me until she’s convinced that selling me her home is the right thing to do. Until she’s sure that I will treat the property with the respect it deserves. Until she sees that I’m not heartless, even if holding her is wrong on so many levels. This is a business deal and I’m letting it get personal.

  Like she’s reading my thoughts, Izzy pulls away a few inches and her chin tips. She stares at my quiet lips with equal parts curiosity and doubt. Then she licks her own.

  I don’t know who moves first, but she’s on her toes and I’m bending forward and the lips I’ve dreamt of are grazing across mine, swooping softly. The tongue I’ve wanted to taste pokes out and dances with my own. Her tears wet my palms as I cradle her face, stroking my thumbs over her smooth cheeks. Izzy’s arm curls around my neck and she pulls me to her as much as I do the same. Gentle moans escape her, vibrating from my ears to my groin, making me hard in an instant. I press myself against her, letting her feel what she does to me every damn time I see her. Her other hand slides down my back, fingers digging into my ass, urging me on. Very quickly, we’re both losing control. The tame shifts of our mouths are replaced by more animalistic advances. More frantic, more urgent.

  Then it hits us.

  We can’t do this.

  She has a boyfriend.

  I have a business.

  With a little shove, she pushes herself away from me and I drop my hands to my sides.

  “Sorry,” she says, covering her kiss-plumped lips with her wet cuff.

  She apologises as if this was all her. Like I didn’t desire this too. We shouldn’t have done that here, in the place of her current sorrow, but I’m not sorry. If we were standing anywhere else right now, I would have told her to call Asher and tell him it’s over. Then I would have thrown her over my shoulder and carried off to show her how unapologetic I am.

  Izzy puts more space between us. “I’m sure this isn’t how you’re used to doing business.”

  She has no idea. No one’s ever cried in a business meeting before. Nor have I ever wanted to throttle a seller one day and fuck her the next. Throttle yes, some sellers can be dicks about negotiations. But never, ever fuck.

  I’ve bent Izzy across so many surfaces and pushed her against all the walls in this shack. I’ve heard my name bounce off the unfinished floors and my grunts echo through the empty hallways. She’s got me twisted between loving and hating her, and I can’t tell which emotion belongs in which column anymore.

  I also put some space between us, still feeling the urge to reach out for her again. That kiss was better than my dreams. Needier, sweeter, more satisfying.

  “Where will you live?” I steer conversation away from how that kiss broke all the rules in the book. The kiss that I’ll never forget, even if it should never have happened.

  In fourteen days, she’ll be sitting on a pile of cash and can have the pick of almost any neighbourhood in the city. Could be that she has plans to become my competition now that she has the capital. She’s got the ability and the right connections.

  Her lips quirk in a sly smile. “Maybe I’ll buy your place next-door. Then I can keep an eye on you and ensure you’re doing things properly.” She taps her spot on my chest with her palm as she moves past me towards the door, having regained some of her spirit.

  After all these months of trying to get rid of her, now I want her next-door.

  “YOUR PERSISTENCE PAID off. The house is yours as of noon today.” Brett tells me over the phone. “Izzy said she’d come by with the keys.”

  I convinced her to hold on to the keys, but true to her word, she never came back.

  This isn’t the normal way to close deals. Usually, the two realtors meet to exchange keys and perform a walkthrough. Given that she didn’t have a realtor and that I’m pretty sure Izzy hates Brett more than the idea of selling her house, we did it this way.

  We haven’t spoken since the afternoon when I signed the papers accepting her offer. Since the moment we forgot we were enemies and acted like lovers.

  Not being face-to-face with her doesn’t mean I haven’t seen her. I see her every time I close my eyes. I hear her voice every time I’m surrounded by silence. Fuck, I think about her more now than I did before and my dick aches from being hard and ignored all day long.

  All the minutes I thought I would get back in a day by not being angry with her have been replaced by thinking about her lips, her hips, her legs. Thinking about more than sex. I need to know that she’s okay, that she found somewhere to live. I want to see her at the pub and have her glare at me or even ignore me; I don’t care. I’d suffer looking at Asher’s smiling face so I can look at hers. My brainwaves are consumed by her day and night.

  As soon as I disconnect with Brett, I pull out the checklist for new projects as if I don’t have it memorised. I send the land surveyors an email lining up their services in a couple weeks. I send Greg a note telling him the project next-door is finally a go. I wouldn’t be surprised if he already has some sketches on paper. After all, we’ve been talking about putting a house on this land for years. I also drop Tommy a text and tell him we’ll celebrate the next time he’s here. He asks if Izzy can come and I don’t know who that would upset more: Tommy when I lie and tell him she can’t, or Izzy at the invitation to toast her loss.

  Last, I visit Pops. We always have a nip when I purchase or sell a property by sneaking the Scotch into the nursing home for a tipple.

  I knock before pushing the door open. “Hey, Pops. It’s Owen. How are you?”

  “Hello, lad! Good to see ye.”

  Days when he recognises me are so infrequent now; each one is a gift.

  I close the door before reaching into my jacket pocket to proffer the flask. Pops’ eyes light up. Some things can’t be forgotten, no matter how old and diseased the brain gets.

  “That better be the proper stuff and n
ot that American shite.” To him, alternatives don’t exist.

  I snicker. “Yeah, Pops, it’s Scotch. Full of all the smoke and peat, exactly how you like it.”

  I slide my jacket from my arms and toss it on the bed. It’s about thirty degrees in his room—no wonder why he forgets things. It’s like living in a sauna and I already want to curl up and nap.

  “Livy hates that stuff. Give it to me quick before she comes home and yells at me.” He hunches and whispers like we’re conspiring teenagers. I laugh again and hand him the flask. I learned a long time ago to put no more than a finger’s worth in there. Pops doesn’t share so nicely in his old age.

  With a shaky hand, he lifts the small metal canteen to his lips. He’s humming before the liquid slides past the gate. I watch with amusement because these are the moments I live for now. I could buy and sell a thousand homes, and none of those transactions would feel as good as seeing Pops smile.

  “What are we celebratin’, lad?” He sneaks another nip and smacks his loose lips in complete gratification.

  “I finally got the house next-door.”

  “The one with the lassie?”

  I smile so big the corners of my eyes tingle. He remembers that too. “Yeah, Pops. The one with the lassie.”

  He claps me on the shoulder enthusiastically. When he was younger, that thump would have sent me lurching forward. Today it’s much softer although the enthusiasm behind it persists.

  “When’s the wedding?”

  “We’re not getting married. I bought her house to demo it.” Those words bring the celebration down a notch.

  He shakes his head at me. I know that disappointed expression all too well. My teenage years were full of expressions like that. It was always the same, regardless of the situation. Took a stupid soccer penalty: the look. Forgot to study for a test and bombed it: the look. Used half-inch nails rather than three-quarter inch nails: the look.